


Rehabilitate and Reflect

by blockbtrash



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:16:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 11,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blockbtrash/pseuds/blockbtrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was almost funny. All Batman had to do to finally stop the Joker was retire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can you play with my hair?

A thin, white leg hung over the armrest of Bruce's couch. Joker was naked from the waist up, dressed only in a borrowed pair of sleep pants that only barely stayed on his hips.

Bruce sat on the couch, his back straight against the support. Joker had placed his head in Bruce's lap, which the latter allowed in a rare moment of affection, which meant Joker was being rewarded for good behavior.

“Bats,” Joker cooed. “Can you play with my hair?” The request was quiet, nearly sheepish.

Bruce hadn't responded verbally, he didn't need to. His broad hands raked gently through Joker's hair. Joker had been good that week, so he would indulge him.

Many years had passed since Batman's original offer of rehabilitating the Joker. There was a time where both believed it was hopeless. As men do, however, they grew older. Their lives grew more docile. Dick had taken on the mantle of Batman full time, with Bruce patrolling occasionally depending on the frequency of crime. Joker had felt the original Batman's absence enough where his livelihood grew meaningless. It was almost funny. All Batman had to do to finally stop the Joker was retire.

Bruce would never forget when Joker showed up to the manor, purple suit faded and smile exchanged for a placid gaze. Before Bruce could even react, Joker let the words, “I missed you, please fix me.” slip from his mouth. Six words Bruce would never forget.

Months now into their undiscussed agreement, Joker would stifle his urge for crime or mischief and Batman would reward him. If Joker's behavior wasn't acceptable, Batman would ignore him. In a way, Bruce felt he hadn't retired at all. His duty had simply changed in nature.

“Do you hate me?” Joker asked. He asked it every week, and Bruce would immediately answer with a yes every time.

This time was no different. “Yes.”

But Joker then proceeded to say something, which had yet to happen in the weekly ritual. “Why do all of this, then?”

A flicker of sadness flashed across Bruce's face, followed by a sigh. “It's the penance I pay for letting you live.”

Joker smiled. Laughed, even. “It should break my heart to hear that, but it just makes me smile.” He plucked one of the hands off his head and wrapped his fingers around the thick wrist. “I love you, you know.”

Bruce grunted. Of course he knew. It was one of the very reasons he could never bring himself to finish off the clown once and for all.

“I don't feel sorry for everything I've done,” Joker admitted. “Not yet. That's why I'm here. And when the time comes that I can feel sorry, I want you to find it in your heart to forgive me.”

“I won't be able to,” Bruce responded flatly.

“Don't be like that,” Joker chuckled. “Here I am opening myself up to you, and you're being the bitter bat.”

“I think I have reason enough,” Bruce snapped, pulling his other hand off of Joker's head. “I'm going to bed.” He pushed Joker off and got to his feet. “When you start feeling remorse is when you don't need me anymore.”

Joker silently watched Batman walk off, mouth dipping back and forth between smile and frown. After the pad of Bruce's bare feet became inaudible, he retired to his own quarters for the night. With age the sleep had come easy, but the dreams never got any better.

The times Bruce slept well into the afternoon had long since gone after Alfed's passing. At the latest, he'd wake at nine in the morning. Far more often he awoke at six to prepare breakfast. Joker would always be stirred by the sounds coming from the kitchen and he'd join Bruce in the morning.

“You need help?” Joker asked every single morning.

“No,” Bruce replied every single morning. There was a sanctity Bruce resolved to uphold in the kitchen, a very bizarre observance of Alfred's memory if Joker did say so himself. If Joker desired to cook, he was instructed to do so in the guest kitchen and only for himself. Bruce refused anything made by Joker's hand.

One day, Joker figured. One day he'd break down the defense. At the moment, he was content to sit in the kitchen and watch Batman's concentration and cautious movements. The man could do everything exceptionally well, except cook. That would never not be funny to Joker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea tells a story, inspired by both "Going Sane" and "The Killing Joke". This is the first part of a series of drabbles that I wrote half a year ago. Re-read it after a very long time and am really pleased with it.
> 
> While I've got a couple more to upload, I'll really update this as the ideas come to me. I'll be spacing out the existing ones considerably as I go. Rating might change. Might not. My only plan is to let the BatJokes feels come in and guide me.
> 
> How old Bruce and Joker actually are here is up to you. There will be some upcoming mentions of certain character death, but they're hardly the forefront of the story I'm trying to tell.


	2. She Talks to Me

The manor was alive. Joker had said that his first week living there, and Bruce was surprised Joker had felt it the same way he always had. The walls breathed, floors groaned, and there was always an unmistakable presence of something watching harmlessly. Bruce had never felt lonely in the manor, but he had the strangest suspicion the manor felt lonely without him there.

There were a few flooboards Joker habitually stepped on. He liked to listen to a reassuring creak. A smile would spread across his lips as he shifted his weight from one foot to another to listen to the moan of the floor beneath him. Bruce, seated, would watch the communication with mild amusement. His home had accepted the guest more than Bruce had.

Joker had stopped playing around and seated himself beside Bruce. “How many people have lived here before you?”

“Dozens,” Bruce answered. “Not just family, but staff and friends of family.”

Joker nodded, staring down at the floorboards beneath his feet. “The house feels empty.”

Bruce raised a brow. “Does it?”

Joker nodded again. He looked at Bruce and smiled somberly. “That's what she told me.”

Despite himself, Bruce smiled. “She?”

“The house,” Joker explained humorlessly.

“I gathered.” Bruce suppressed a laugh.

Catching on, Joker started laughing. “Come on, Batsy. After everything you've seen, you think this is somehow any crazier?”

“No,” Bruce laughed. He shook his head. “I don't think it's any crazier.”

“Liar,” Joker accused with a chuckle. “Your house talks to me, and you think I'm crazy.” After a breath, he sat back and sighed. He shot Bruce a smile. “Well, I can't blame you.”

“I believe you,” Bruce affirmed. The smile fell from his face. “It's just that she's never talked to me before. The situation strikes me as funny.”

“No, Bats.” Joker closed his hand around Bruce's wrist. “She's tried to talk to you. You just don't know how to listen.”

Bruce pulled his arm out of Joker's grasp. He gave the clown a hard, warning stare. Joker's posture sank a little under the gaze. He rubbed his lips together before scooting away from Bruce and apologizing for touching him.

Uncrossing his legs, Bruce heard the floorboard squeak under him. A sharp, accusatory cry. You don't know how to listen.

He exhaled any of the building aggression and stood, the sense of melancholy tugging in his chest as he cast a final glance at Joker and walked out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are short, granted, so it doesn't really mean that much when I say I've managed to churn out quite a few more rough drafts for upcoming chapters. But I've managed to churn out quite a few more rough drafts for upcoming chapters.
> 
> Just a reminder, these drabbles are all connected. The progression is linear, but passage of time is ambiguous.


	3. Never Room for Anyone Else

Bruce wasn't there when Selina plummeted to her death, but he saw the footage that had been recorded by street and cell phone cameras. As the beauty gracefully scaled buildings, a crackshot madman caught her in the shoulder. She fell all the way down from a thirty-story building and had died immediately on impact.

He loved Selina, and there was a time he genuinely believed that they'd one day put their pasts behind them and be able to live every day as common lovers. He had allowed himself to fantasize that he would grow old with her. Opportunism was his mistake.

He looked at Joker sitting idly beside him, eyes glazed over as he watched television. This was the price of his opportunism.

Even Harley Quinn had begged Batman to kill the Joker after an extreme degradation of the madman's mind. She had died not long after Selina had. The girl miscalculated the range of her own bomb, and she had barely survived the explosion. She died within several days of being in intensive care.

“Did you love Harley Quinn?” Bruce asked suddenly.

As if awakened, there was a jerk of Joker's head and his eyes came back into focus. He turned to Bruce. “Repeat that?”

“Did you love Harley Quinn?”

There was a slight raise to Joker's brows. The question seemed so out of place in the quiet moment, but he knew his answer without even having to think about the implications. “I've always loved you, Batman. There was never room for anyone else.”

It said enough. There wasn't even a stir of sadness at the mention of her name, no trace of longing in his eyes. Bruce didn't expect anything different, but it hurt to hear all the same. “How did you feel when she died?”

“You're not going to like this,” Joker warned lightly. He paused, awaiting the nod from Bruce that prompted him to continue. “There was always this inevitability I felt. Like a terminally ill patient who's just hanging on by the skin of their teeth. You just know it's going to come. You accept it. It happened with all of them before her.”

“All of them?” Bruce repeated slowly.

“All the Harley Quinns,” Joker elaborated. “Harvey Quinns, too. Followers of all sorts,” he added.

Joker was right. Bruce didn't like it. He was thankful Joker didn't press the issue after he went silent, but the clown kept glancing over like he had something to say. When Bruce turned to meet the gaze, the clown turned his focus back toward the television.

Of course Joker had his questions, but if Bruce wanted to drop it then the topic was dropped.


	4. Thank You

Watching the news together had become a pastime. More because Bruce was always insistent on keeping up with current trends to the point where every local and international news source was DVR-recorded and whenever they sat down for television it was all they watched. Joker didn't mind this all that much as news itself was entertainment. Gross exaggerations, each source biased in its presentation so that when watching a different broadcaster's take on the story a new piece of information surfaced to create a more vivid retelling in Joker's mind. It was like a gradual uncovering of some larger conspiracy, but Bruce was never interested in discussing that much with him.

So he'd learned to be mostly be quiet unless he had a genuine question. More often he was mindful of his own reactions. He kept himself stone-faced and serious, looking over at Bruce's expression to get an idea of how the other felt about one story or another and how Joker should have reacted to a story.

Bruce had long-since figured that out, and while it irked him that he was being used as a behavior model for the clown to essentially pretend he was taking the news seriously, scolding Joker would provide absolutely no benefit to either of them.

Maybe Joker was caught off guard, or the story simply tickled more than any of the others he had steeled himself against. A man had accidentally shot his twelve-year-old daughter in the arm while trying to teach her about gun safety. Before he could stop himself, he giggled.

Joker had been successful in restraining himself for months. This was his first outburst in a while. Bruce turned, wordlessly looking at the other man.

When Joker felt the eyes on him, he turned back. When he saw Bruce's face, the smile on his own had dropped. Bruce looked disappointed. They shared the gaze for a moment before Bruce had turned back and continued watching.

At first, Joker only felt disappointment in himself for disappointing Bruce. He swallowed down painfully, face growing warm and throat tightening. The atmosphere felt near-suffocating, and once the shame set in he wasn't able to keep in the tears. He tried to cry quietly to keep from disturbing Bruce, but he sniffled loudly and the other was alerted.

Bruce had sighed audibly at the sight. The attention on him had brought Joker down to sobbing, hunched over with his face buried in his hands as angry grunts sounded at the back of his throat. 

Bruce felt bad. He wasn't quite sure if it was appropriate to feel pity in that situation or even keep focusing on the clown's breakdown, but he turned the TV off and silently faced the Joker.

It was after five minutes that the loud sobbing had subsided. Ten for the crying to stop all together, but Joker's eyes were still bloodshot and nose was runny for a little while after. Being watched had bothered him at first. Though a realization had struck him that this was Bruce's way of not only acknowledging his pain, but respecting it and even shouldering it in the only way he dared with Joker.

This was not Joker's first breakdown. It was an infrequent occurrence, but the times before Bruce had pretended to ignore the crying or had even outright left the room.

In hindsight, Joker would almost say he felt grateful. He wiped his nose with his sleeve, swallowed thickly before muttering a weak, “Thank you.” He wondered if Bruce knew what he was being thanked for.

When Bruce nodded solemnly, Joker smiled. Bruce knew exactly what he meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while, huh? It's my bad. I'm sorry.


	5. A Little Faith

“I missed you. Please fix me.”

Bruce mulled over Joker's initial greeting the most when he had time to himself. As he fell asleep, as he showered in the morning, or the few occasions where Joker actually sought to spend his time independent of Bruce.

“I missed you.” There wasn't much there to think about, but “Please fix me,” had always troubled him. It always prompted the mental image of a lobotomy, prodding at parts of the clown's brain with a batarang until he made an educated guess on what to sever .

“Please fix me,” wasn't merely a permissive allowance for Bruce to enter the clown's mind. The Joker had pleaded with him.

“Please fix me.” Bruce looked at his own hands. The water from the shower's spray hit his palms and fingers directly. It was no secret that he blamed himself for Joker. For everything Joker did. For everything Joker was. For everything Joker became. And as he mulled and stared at his palms, for a moment he thought he saw blood on his hands.

“Please fix me.” No matter how many years that passed, Bruce was still able to look at his hands and imagine ending it once and for all. He still had the strength in him to do it. A quick snap of the neck was all it would take and then both of them would finally be free of each other. He doubted there were other ways to "fix" Joker.

There were many conversations he would never forget with the clown, but there was one where Joker refused Bruce's initial offer of rehabilitation. At the time, Joker said it was too late and Bruce had agreed with him.

Now something had changed Joker's mind, but as far as Bruce was concerned it was still far too late. Then he got stumped on Joker, of all people, having hope while Bruce didn't. That got him wondering if the real problem was his own lack of faith.

He stepped out of the shower, got dressed and found Joker pouring himself a glass of water in the main kitchen. He was about to take a sip, but once he saw Bruce he offered it to the other man. Tentatively, Bruce accepted it and took a slow sip. Joker's eyes went wide and Bruce smiled behind the glass.

Joker opened the cupboard, grabbed another glass for himself and poured a second cup of water. He sat up on the counter, beaming brightly at Bruce.

If he couldn't bring himself to use his hands, he could try a little faith.


	6. Look at Me

The problem with Bruce was that he asked himself the wrong questions. Merely sitting beside the man, Joker could hear the gears turning in that worn mind while Bruce blinked his introspection as if it were Morse code.

A step forward, and then another two back. He didn't have to hear it to know what it was, he didn't need to be told Bruce was constantly second-guessing his decision and pretended to know what he was doing to maintain that idea of authority.

Admittedly, Joker blamed himself. He looked the other way from the beginning, hoping it would pass when now it was clear it was only becoming detrimental. He was happy when Bruce simply trusted the glass of water he poured and drank from it, but the man had withdrawn again asking the same pointless questions that neither would ever have an answer to.

It would have been easy to get his attention. He wouldn't need to to do anything drastic, just leave for the city and wait to be found. But the idea of doing something drastic was also appealing, because even if he hid it well his fingers still itched every time he felt an emotion he hadn't prepared himself for. Sometimes his fingers twitched merely wanting to reach out for Bruce, and other times he longed for everything that made Bruce hate him in the first place.

Today, though, today he was fed up. Sitting on that quiet couch, wanting to laugh but not wanting to be scolded. Wanting to cry, but not wanting Bruce to leave the room or ignore him. When his hands reached out they aimed for the neck, but if there was one thing instilled in him since showing up it was self-control. The hands fell on either shoulder, gently turning Bruce toward him.

This self-control was his gift to Bruce.

“Please, look at me,” Joker begged. Something hitched in his throat when incredulous eyes fell on him, Bruce still too surprised to be angry. Joker felt the body through his hands, it stiffening briefly before relaxing with an exhale. “That's all. I just want you to look at me.” He was going to remove his hands, pull back but the eyes on him hadn't hardened.

Slowly scanning Bruce's expression, he slid a hand up to the cheek. He brushed along the cheekbone with his thumb, still preparing himself for getting shoved off but the push never came. And Joker realized he might have been wrong, that maybe Bruce had finally put those tired old questions to rest.

His hand was soon covered by Bruce's, thicker fingers closing over his. He'd no longer looked incredulous, and instead of looking cross like Joker would have expected he looked thoughtful. “When I look at you, what is it you want me to see?”

That was a new question. Joker's brow furrowed. “How am I supposed to answer a rhetorical question?”

Bruce smiled. He moved the hand off of his cheek until Joker took his hands off the other man and dropped them at his sides. “It's a bit of a weird question,” Bruce started. “But I think you do have an answer. What do you want me to see you as?”

At Bruce's smile, Joker laughed at ease. “There isn't enough time in the world to answer that question, Bats.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine if Joker had a diary he'd have entries like: "Great progress today! First I resisted the urge to skin a puppy and then Bruce let me breathe in his direction :') I'm so in love."


	7. Saudade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manuel de Melo defines 'saudade' as, "a pleasure you suffer, an ailment you enjoy."

Joker was lighter on his feet. Happier, maybe, but Bruce didn't feel comfortable assuming anything of the clown. He'd found himself staring often, only realizing it once the other would meet his gaze with a smile at having caught Bruce. Instead of pretending he hadn't been staring, he'd taken to returning the smile.

In anything he did, Joker always loved an audience. He'd sit Bruce down, insist in his competence in cooking and would interject every time his host had gotten up to assist or correct a mistake. The truth was Joker was a lousy cook, and he'd only admit to it after taking a bite of his own creation caused his expression to sour.

“I'm learning,” Joker said with his mouth full. He swallowed heavily, audibly and drained half his glass of water. “I've always dreamed of having a cooking show,” he continued after a breath.

“You'll get there some day,” Bruce entertained. “How about you let me help next time?”

“I suppose I should've allowed you to intervene when all that salt fell into the pot.” Joker shoved his plate away from him. “Ah well.”

They'd tossed the food. Bruce whipped up a quick pasta with a canned sauce and they ate between short conversation. Bruce had wondered when he stopped feeling that Joker was a stranger in his home, nearly to the point where he welcomed the company.

He'd probably have been alone without Joker around. He certainly was before Joker showed up. After Alfred's funeral, Dick and Tim had visited frequently. As the weeks had progressed and time had eased their grief, the younger men became too preoccupied with their own lives and families to stop by. Days passed between visits, soon weeks and then months.

After six months of not having seen anyone outside of grocery runs and doctor visits, he wondered if it was the timing that made it so easy for him to open his door for the clown 

He remembered a conversation months back, of Joker speaking on the manor's behalf. “The house feels empty”. “She's tried to talk to you. You just don't know how to listen”. Bruce smiled. The manor had been worried for him even when he refused to recognize his own loneliness.

Joker brought him out of his thoughts. “What's that face for?”

“Just remembering something,” Bruce answered.

“By the looks of it, it was something nice.”

“It was,” Bruce confirmed. He sat forward, leaned his elbow on the table and his chin cupped in his hand. “How long did you wait before you decided to come find me?”

Joker cocked his head, but hardly hesitated in answering, “About six months. That's when I realized you weren't coming back.”

“Why'd you think I'd just let you in?” Bruce wasn't combative, just curious.

Joker picked up and dropped his shoulders in a shrug. “I don't know. Just had a feeling.” Slowly, he smiled. “It's the same way I knew you weren't dead. I just feel it. I can feel that you're alive. I felt that you would've accepted me. And I have nothing else, so once I got fed up with being alone I looked for you. I realized something important that day, Batman.”

Bruce remained quiet, conversation drawing on his fascination. The smile on the Joker's face was so docile, softer than Bruce ever imagined possible from the clown. He felt it pull something inside him and he had to fight down the suspicion tooth and nail of it being some sort of manipulation because the both of them had been doing so well recently.

“Everything, every single goddamn thing I've done has been for you, because of you, what have you. I already knew that much, actually.” Joker chuckled briefly. “But I never really gave thought to the implication. No, what I realized was that I could change. I realized I could because I did change, because even doing everything I thought I'd enjoyed I'd never been more miserable then before I sought you.”

“You missed me,” Bruce offered.

“More than that,” Joker added, punctuating with almost angry gestures of his hands. “More than just missed you. There was a longing. For you, for everything you made me feel. You speak Portuguese, right?”

He knew the word. Bruce knew the word before Joker was going to say it, but he merely nodded and waited for Joker to continue.

“They have a wonderful word that, I think, encapsulates it beautifully. Saudade. I'd heard the word before, usually in music, but it'd never really occurred to me just what it meant until I was in my worst moments.” He eyed Bruce, though he hadn't expected a response. “I'm not expecting you to understand or feel the same about all of this. I'm just telling you because I want to. And because you asked.”

That's where Bruce cut in with a raise of his head. He was almost hesitant, but swallowed his pride. “I may not feel the same, but I do understand. And I'm thankful that you told me all of this.” Bruce exhaled, slowly. “Because I want to trust you, and I want to learn to forgive you.”

He'd expected Joker to smile at that, but the clown's mouth was tugged into a small frown. Sensing his expression was being questioned, he quietly explained, “I'm a selfish man, Bats.”

“I'm sorry,” Bruce admitted with a small quirk of his brow at the non-sequitur. “I don't follow.”

“If you manage to trust me and forgive me, I'm going to want you to love me.”

That hadn't surprised Bruce in the slightest, though he'd never imagined that admission paired with such a dejected manner. “There's nothing selfish about wanting to be loved.”

“Maybe, when you're anybody else in the world.” Joker excused himself then. He thanked Bruce for fixing the dinner situation, grabbed the plates and glasses on the table before heading back to the kitchen to wash the dishes.

Bruce shifted in the dining chair. Under his feet, the floorboards groaned. He remembered his input on another conversation they'd shared, “When you start feeling remorse is when you don't need me anymore”. 

He regretted those words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so sad and shit. Hopefully the idea of Bruce eating Ragu and sketti makes you feel better.


	8. What You Wore

Usually Joker was there to greet him when Bruce got home. There'd be the occasions where he'd be in the shower, or cooking and cleaning up after himself in the guest kitchen. He dismissed the clown's absence for the first twenty minutes, but to go that long without the clown greeting him was becoming unnerving.

Bruce had an application on his phone that allowed him to check the security cameras in the Batcave. He pulled it up, dreading to see if the Joker had actually managed his way in. He didn't even need to look for longer than a couple of seconds to see the other man inside. He pocketed his phone and made a beeline to the cave.

Ever since Joker had come to him, this had always been a possibility that worried him. That he was being taken for a ride, manipulated until he decided to make the mistake of being too trusting and allowing the clown to take advantage of him.

When he made it to the cave, Joker was pressed up against the glass of the second Batman suit on display. “This is the one you wore when we met, right?” Joker had asked quietly, pulling himself from the glass and pointing to the suit.

Most of Bruce's anger had left him. Joker's eyes were wide, eager with curiosity and body giddy with an excitement. He'd still have to discuss boundaries with Joker, but now the focus shifted onto the fact that Joker's memories were being stirred.

“You remember?” 

Joker nodded. “Vaguely.” He pressed both hands to the glass again and got as close as his body allowed. “All of your suits except your earliest, I've got some memories. Or at least memories of feelings I had attached.” He ran his hand along the glass. “But this one's special, even if I remember it the least. Because you wore this one both times we met, right?” He looked back at Bruce for confirmation.

Bruce affirmed the clown's conclusion with a nod. “Before and after the incident.”

“This is what you wore when you made me.” Joker laughed. He shook his head apologetically and drew back from the glass. “Even if you don't like to think about it, I'm happy it's here. It reminds me of something important. Something I wouldn't want to forget. I think you and I can agree on that much.”

Bruce caught Jason's old suit in his periphery. Sternly, he fixed his gaze on Joker. “Why did you come down here without my permission?”

“You weren't here,” Joker offered. It was hardly an excuse and both of them knew it. He even shrugged. “You don't let me see you in your suit before you go out.”

“Do you believe you could control yourself if I did?” Though Bruce knew the answer to it before he even asked.

Joker wasn't going to fight him on it, thankfully. He laughed, even. “No, absolutely not.”

Bruce wanted to laugh along, but he still had to punish Joker and figure out a way to Joker-proof all the entrances to the Batcave. “Let's go upstairs.” Before they'd left, Bruce had taken a look over his shoulder at his old suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah it's been a long time. Things have been pretty rough recently, so expect an already unpredictable update schedule to be even more unpredictable.


	9. Suffer With You

What took Joker to forget in an hour took Bruce a lifetime. The clown was hunched over a tablet on the couch, giggling while playing a game. Seeing the man enjoy himself despite all the horrible things he'd done had filled Bruce with resentment. The clown was able to let go so easily, meanwhile Bruce had tortured himself over his own mistakes.

What was even stranger was before when he'd enter that line of thinking he'd felt rage eat at his compassion. Now he only felt a despaired sadness for his strange companion that solidified his resolve. He couldn't say if he was becoming more compassionate or more stupid when it came to the clown.

Joker thought the latter, and it amused him as much as anything else did. Old Bats was finally becoming senile, he'd figured.

“You don't look at me like that when you've got nothing to say,” Joker looked up from the tablet screen and met Bruce's eyes. His lips quirked in a lazy smirk. “Out with it.”

“Do you know what it feels like to lose something you value?”

Joker could guess a couple hundred things Bruce could be referring to, from Jason Todd's gruesome death down to Alfred's peaceful and natural passing. Maybe it was all-encompassing. “Would it make you feel better about me being here if I said I did?”

He knew Bruce wouldn't respond to that. The silent stare persisted.

“It's all a matter of perspective,” Joker had finally offered. “Probably not in the same way you mean. Maybe at one time I knew. I can't be sure.”

“But don't you ever think about the way Harley used to love you? The way she trusted you, would have died for you? Doesn't it make you feel anything?”

Bruce's ideas of measuring progress and humanity always baffled him. “If you're trying to draw comparisons between me and Harley and you and Selina you're only going to upset yourself. They were never the same kind of relationship.” He set the tablet down, placed a hand on his host's knee and expected Bruce to recoil or remove the hand. Neither happened after a moment's wait. “You know I feel. Sometimes I feel so much at once I don't know what I'm feeling. Her loss wasn't meaningless to me.”

“But what did you feel then?” Bruce had emphasized every word, and Joker was almost taken aback by how terrified the man sounded. 

“I felt a lot,” Joker answered sternly, unwavering. “Your son,” he continued before he could stop himself. He'd only just become hesitant when Bruce had clearly tensed in shock. He hadn't even known Joker knew about Damian. He stopped himself then and retracted his hand. “Forget it.”

“No.” Bruce grabbed the wrist with a little more force than intended, hurting Joker. “What about my son?”

Joker could feel the thrill begin to boil in his body. Angry, annoyed, but also delighted at feeling a little bit of the Bat come out. But he fought, fought all of those more pressing urges in him to prod and provoke. He kept a stranglehold on his self control and after he chose his words carefully he answered, “Could you even begin to describe the feeling of losing him?”

Bruce had deflated. He loosened his grip on Joker's wrist first before pulling his own hand back into his lap. “But it's not comparable.”

“Maybe not,” Joker agreed. “But you understand. You would know better than I do.”

And then there was silence. Any of that previous thrill had left as quickly as it came as Bruce stared straight forward and tight-lipped, quite clearly upset. He typically had a better grip on his emotions than that and Joker wondered who it was that had Bruce in such a mood that day. Whether it was a death anniversary or a birthday he was commemorating and grieving. It was such an unusual display of vulnerability, and with that in mind he slipped his hand down the forearm and tugged the hand out of the lap, working his fingers between Bruce's and stroking the knuckles with his thumb. His host hadn't looked at him, but also hadn't resisted.

“Sometimes I'm jealous of you,” Joker admitted. There was a tint of humor to his voice, but it wasn't insincere. “It's not the money or the good looks, though I wouldn't have minded those either,” he appended a brief laugh. “Especially now, though. I wish I could feel things the way you do. That I could miss the way you do, or love the way you do.”

“Why would you want to?” There was no humor in Bruce's laugh.

“Call me crazy,” Joker started. He'd paused for a snort because the joke in those words was never lost on him. “But I do want to understand exactly how you feel.”

So many walls were dropping before Joker, Bruce quickly losing control of his posture and expressions. Of his body language. Of his discipline. He brought the hand up to his lips and kissed a knuckle softly. “I want you to trust me with those feelings, trust me to ease them.”

Since Joker had become part of the manor, Bruce's family had steered mostly clear of the place except for Dick and Tim on occasion. Even those meetings were tense and abrupt with Joker present, regardless if the clown tried to be pleasant or kept dead silent and out of the way. Jason and Barbara were hardly on speaking terms with Bruce since, along with many others that had alienated him over time for one reason or another. 

The soft words and the affection were stirring his lonely mind. It would've been so easy to get lost in them, to have Joker offset it and give him the attention. Joker wanted to, he could feel it in the soft kisses on the back of his hand and the attentive grip on it. He hadn't seen a loved one in months, but it had been longer since he'd been touched that way, with intimate purpose trying to take some of that pain away, trying to shoulder some of that massive burden that Selina could not bear.

But the face attached was one that had caused far too much pain allow Bruce to relax. He'd snapped his hand back and got to his feet. “You're here for my help. I don't need your help.” He realized he sounded more rushed than stern, and he quickly made himself scarce.

Joker knew when he crossed a boundary. He knew when to be cautious, when to relent. He'd been rejected, and scolded and ignored. He hadn't crossed a boundary that time, at least not yet. It's why he relied on a gut hunch telling him to follow, where he caught Bruce trying to seclude himself in the cave. Ever since his little break-in the combinations and passwords had all changed. It took Joker twenty minutes to figure out a way in, finding Bruce typing madly at the console and pulling up recent news articles from the area. He'd only paused briefly when hearing Joker's footsteps behind him, but he pretended not to notice and continued.

“Who can you possibly help when you're like this?” Joker approached carefully. He kept a fair distance behind the chair.

He'd heard Bruce scoff. All the walls were built back up “I don't know how you can be so deluded to think you can do any good for me.”

That was a blow. “I don't know how anyone can be so deluded to try and help me, but here we are. You're fighting an uphill battle, Bats. All your little friends think you're the crazy one while you're the only one who believes.”

“It's the penance I pay-”

“Yeah, I've heard it a dozen times. I don't believe it anymore. I know you're lonely. Everyone who's ever loved you is dead or too busy to make time for you. Let's put that out on the table, Bats. Neither of us are as complicated as we think we are.”

“Spare me,” Bruce argued. “You see things that aren't there, your perceptions are hardly reliable.”

“Everything boils down to a back alley shootout. That's why we're here.” Now Joker was laughing, cacophonous and excited. “Mind telling me what's unreliable about that?”

Immediately, Bruce responded with, “It's not that simple.”

“Not with you. It's never that simple with you.” Joker kept laughing, drawn closer to Bruce. “Don't pretend you don't stop and think about how absurd it all is, how a moment in time set the pace for such an extraordinary life. How you managed to drag countless people into your personal hell to suffer with you.”

He knew Bruce was seething. He'd stopped typing, and while he couldn't see the man's face or body he saw a hand tightened so hard on the computer mouse that his knuckles whitened.

“But now I'm the only one left,” Joker continued, his body nearly vibrating with excitement. “And boy do you make me suffer, Bats. I can see how it killed so many people before me.”

He was anticipating the reaction, Bruce launching himself from his chair and swinging at Joker. The other put his arms up to defend himself, but weakened by months of inactivity he was knocked right off his feet and onto the ground. He laughed through the sting of the back of his head connecting with rock and briefly wondered if the force of it was enough to crack his skull.

He was at least concussed, because he didn't even notice that Bruce had seized him by the collar and sent another punch square in the nose until the hit had already connected. It was familiar and fun, unlike the months he spent depressed alongside his equally depressing companion. And they kept coming, Bruce grunting out with every one with the sheer effort he exerted until his host had worked himself to a sweat and he'd needed to take a breath.

Joker was too far gone to notice the panic on Bruce's expression at that point, but he had noticed Bruce releasing him and stepping back. He smiled, blood spilling from the corners of his mouth. When he laughed, he nearly choked and tipped his head to spit all the blood out. He'd felt very tired after that. He hummed, eyes slipped shut as he let sleep take him.

Joker was still breathing, so Bruce had allowed himself a few minutes to gather himself, to reel in the adrenaline and burn in his fists until they slowly unclenched. There was blood on his knuckles. He wiped them off on his pants before pulling a dust-covered steel table out from the side and searching for medical equipment he hadn't used for a while.

He was careful with propping Joker up on the table, worried about jostling the man too much. He'd knocked a few teeth out, had broken the nose again and to cleaned some of the blood and set the nose to the best of his ability. Alfred had always been better at that sort of thing. Bruce suddenly longed for that presence.

Just to sate paranoia, he stuck an IV in the clown and stayed beside him for hours until the clown opened his eyes again. He glanced around the cave until his eyes locked onto Bruce and his lips quirked.

With a string of mumbling he had managed a quiet, “You got me good.”

“Go back to sleep,” Bruce responded.

Joker gave a single nod and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this an apology. Posting a little ahead.


	10. Fighting Is

Bruce never put stock into the “world’s greatest detective” title, but he recognized that he was perceptive enough. Joker refused to talk because Bruce wouldn’t talk to him, though the clown would still smile and nod his head towards Bruce in greeting whenever they shared space, no matter how brief.

More ridiculous than anything, Bruce felt something akin to guilt. If not that, then something not off the mark that still made it difficult to look Joker in the eye.

So Bruce brooded. He mulled and pondered and reminisced. There was one memory in particular, over dinner with Joker they'd once conversed about the clown's propensity for provocation.

“Think about the best sex you've ever had- Selina, right?” Joker pointed his fork toward Bruce, knowing smirk.

“I don't see-” Of course he saw. He knew where Joker was getting at, but hoped to end that train of conversation before the correlation was made explicitly clear. Bruce didn't get a chance, though. Joker had interrupted him.

“When I seek you out, when I provoke you, it's courtship.” As he chewed, Joker added. “Fighting is foreplay.”

Stupidly, Bruce continued the conversation. “So what is sex?”

“Sex is sex.” Joker laughed. “So Selina would set up an obvious plot expecting, no, hoping for you to foil it. That's courtship. You two would fight, the foreplay. And then you'd make love above the city. And before you interject,” Joker raised his fork abruptly. “I'm sure you two consummated many times in more conventional ways, but I know you, Bats.”

Bruce reflected on this memory, wrapping his mind around the alien idea of Joker and sex. He'd pushed it from his mind then, but it kept coming up after the incident. Somehow more bizarre than anything he'd seen, than any situation he'd found himself in was the very thought that Joker was aroused during the exchange.

Fighting was foreplay, and now Bruce saw a smugness in those quiet smiles that he hadn't initially picked up on. Over what exactly, Bruce wasn't sure but the words “fighting is foreplay” came to the forefront. 

That was when Bruce decided to break the silence.

Joker was seated in the main kitchen, scrolling through his tablet. He looked up and gave the smirk when Bruce stepped in. 

“I'm about to sit down for the evening news.” It was as close as an invitation that Bruce would give.

Joker’s smile stretched, though no longer smug. “I'll be right there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "what is sex?"- Actual quote from Batman probably
> 
> Also woah last time I updated this was a year ago now rip I'm the worst


	11. Scope of Things

Time had a funny way of dulling associations. Whenever Joker made contact, Bruce nearly forgot the lives those hands had taken. This Joker was different, maybe. But the Joker always came back different, a little changed by time.

Really, Bruce wasn’t sure whether it was time or the times that changed the clown. Joker had often complained about a pain in his joints as he cooked, shook out his hands often when they’d bothered him. Early signs of arthritis, Bruce guessed. Then again, who knows what damage those hands had seen. Bruce’s back never lost its stiffness after it’d recovered, after all.

Joker’s hand settled on Bruce’s wrist, pointer and middle finger loosely curled over the back of Bruce’s hand. It didn’t feel like a killer’s hand.

There was no illusion between either of them. They weren’t young and spry. Bruce’s rare patrols were assisted by a highly mechanized suit, with Clark on call in the event of an emergency. Not much was left to chance, not anymore.

He would’ve risked it all for Gotham once, leaving Bruce to realize that along the lines he had also changed. Maybe it was Selina’s passing. Maybe Damian’s. Maybe Jason’s. Or maybe it was the first time he’d taken a ward and assumed and accepted a responsibility as something more than a protector.

Dick had called him “father” a few times, only accidentally. That mishap was enough to change him, to change the meaning of what he hoped to accomplish as Batman.

He looked at Joker. Would it change anything if he could begin to comprehend what he was to the clown? Probably not, but he was dangerously thoughtful that night.

“What am I to you?”

Joker cocked his head as if he hadn’t heard it right. Though he heard, and turned himself fully toward Bruce, pulling his legs up on the couch. “There’s this room,” he started, vibrating with excitement. “Then there’s this house. There’s your land. There’s the neighborhood.” His hands slowly pulled further and further apart at everything listed. “There’s the city. Then the county. There’s the state. Then the timezone, then the country and we’re not even halfway there.”

Bruce realized Joker was waiting for a prompt to stop or continue. He gave a slow, tentative nod. “I’m trying to understand. Keep going.”

Joker beamed. “So the country, then, right? Then the continent. Then our hemisphere. Our planet. Our solar system. Our galaxy. And we’re part of a cluster of galaxies that aren’t even a drop in the bucket to the expanse of the universe. And when we get that far, there’s everything we know and everything we can’t even begin to wrap our minds around. The secret to everything, the key to the beginning and the end if there even is one. And then, Batsy.” Joker slowed considerably, regarding Bruce with a softer grin. “There’s you. It’s the best way I can put it.”

“I don’t think you quite understand the scope.”

“I don’t.” Joker laughed. “I don’t care to, but I feel it.”

“How do you feel something like that?” Bruce pressed.

“I don’t know, but it’s there. Sure as the beating of my heart.” He seized Bruce’s wrist, pressed the other’s fingers to his chest. “As long as I’m alive, so are you. And the other way around.”

Bruce expected to be troubled, though he wasn’t. Curious, definitely, about the clown’s point of view. At how the man could be so cock-sure of something so ridiculous. Though compared to what he’d experienced in his lifetime, this was mundane.

Maybe Bruce just didn’t understand the scope, because in the scope of things it didn’t seem so ridiculous. That, or he was just spending so much time with the clown he was starting to think like him. He didn’t know which of the two he was more displeased with.

Joker was used to uncomfortable stretches of silence, watching with a quirk of his lips as Bruce mulled. For a genius, he sure was an idiot. That was fine, though. Joker found it endearing and enjoyed seeing the man go through his small, daily crises.

One day Bruce would understand. Joker waited a long time. He could wait a little longer.


	12. Companionable Noise

The way Joker saw it, Bruce was the weirdo. He was quiet most of the day. He stared at pictures of people in his life that passed and looked and acted sad for a while. He grumbled to himself, stared distantly and tightened his fists. He stared at Joker often while doing so, to which Joker only smiled in response.

A madman trapped in his big estate by his volition. He wondered when Bruce would snap, if he did.

The Bat surprised him sometimes, the little things. Letting Joker into his room for brief periods. Letting Joker sit beside him in the Batcave while he investigated conspiracies. Letting Joker speak about nearly anything and everything on his mind.

Comfortable, companionable noise, Joker figured. Bruce’s loneliness had reached that point. Once again, a voluntary isolation. He had friends, but no wish to leave the manor to meet with them. He had suitors, young and old alike who wished for time with him (or his money). The clown knew very well that he was one of the factors that kept Bruce tied to the manor.

Did he feel bad? Not really. He had plenty of attention to give, just little the man would accept. But it was better than the nothing he allowed before.

Progress, as it was, was difficult to measure day by day but easier when looking at the year in review.

“Bats,” Joker sang. And Bruce turned his head, though the flutter in Joker’s heart made it feel as if he did so much more. Spurred now, he held the jaw of the other between thumb and forefinger and stroked the chin.

And to hell with the consequences. He could deal with a pissy Batman. He leaned in, softly kissed the mouth and smiled as Bruce tensed and exhaled loudly through his nostrils.

No outburst. No theatrics. When Joker pulled away, Bruce faced his computer console and continued typing as if nothing had happened. Joker noticed the man made more misspellings than before.

The report was on recent activity with Freeze, filled with instructions and advisements for new, young heroes of the League who had little to no experience with him. It jogged some of Joker’s memories.

Freeze was one hell of a lonely man, driven mad by his loneliness and despair. And while something seemed beautiful about driving Bruce to that point, Batman would not be truly his if he were taken by madness.

So Joker continued speaking, continued filling the room with sound to make his presence be heard, be felt so Bruce could stop pretending he was so alone.


	13. A Long Time Coming

At a certain point, the drone of air conditioning or television static became background noise. That was Joker's stream of verbage, something invasive turned comforting. Well, comforting at best. Familiar was a safer way to liken it. That had him realize he was just the littlest bit crazy.

The kiss didn't freak him out, it was a long time coming. He always told himself he'd deck the clown if he got that close but he just didn't have it in him when the time came. He took issue with that, though, how decades of rage dissipated into nothing.

Joker just didn't inspire that in him anymore, and whether Bruce reached his threshold or because the clown hadn’t posed any sort of threat.

It wasn't vile when Joker touched him, just cold. The man had cold hands. Poor blood circulation, but it was often hard to tell when Joker’s skin tone could only be described as “very white”. Soft touches, cold but warmed when allowed enough contact.

He’d never forgotten Joker was a man, but it had once seemed so secondary. Monster first, man second. Not that Joker’s eyes lit up with empathy or understanding. As it had always been, for anything that wasn’t indifference or a selfish mopiness they’d just light up with amusement.

It had to have been the proximity, where before he’d only seen the man a dozen times throughout a given year to be exposed to the context of Joker day-by-day. To see the man sleep and wake, to see the man eat, to hear the man make utterly human noises, for him to make small talk that wasn’t anything remarkable or memorable. 

It was careless of him, but once Joker’s hands gained a heat to them it was an easy thought to slip into. It was easier to forgive a man who made mistakes than a monster who sought destruction.

Though there was no fine line, if a line existed at all. Both were integral aspects to Joker. A man and monster. Bleeding the same as anyone else didn’t absolve him.

But what would Bruce do about it? What could he do about it? Send the man out so he could vie for Bruce’s attention in ridiculous, extreme ways? There was no punishment suitable because if it didn’t outright put the city in danger, it was simply ineffective at disciplining Joker.

Sometimes he could hear the voices of his family, Jason and Barbara insistent on ending it then and there. Dick and Tim hesitantly offering a temporary solution like incarceration to a permanent problem. Cassandra and Damian, well meaning, would ultimately suggest some sort of crippling. Something befitting what he did to Barbara, and while Bruce had sunk as low to fantasize about it he would never be able to bring that kind of harm to someone deliberately.

Alfred’s voice, like light in fog, suggested, “Why punishment, Bruce?”

Why punishment, indeed. Very few of the criminally insane he dealt with had clear motives that could be swayed, if they even had motives at all. That was why there were attempts made at simply detaining them and treating them, however futile they appeared for the worst lot.

He wished to punish Joker. He wished there was a way for the man to answer for his crimes and come to understand the wrong he’s done.

His hands, arms were warm around Bruce’s midsection. Joker dozed, he’d been up all night watching television alongside Bruce.

But why punishment when it would bear no fruit? The idea of it just felt good.

Bruce didn’t understand Alfred’s question when he was younger, but he did now. Seeking punishment only to satisfy a thirst for revenge he could never truly satisfy for everything Joker had done.

But it felt good to think about. Though the arms, warm around his midsection, also felt good. The clown’s head was propped against his hip, occasionally Joker waking enough to mumble something before falling back asleep again.

Bruce had to keep reminding himself this was no mere man.

He woke the clown gently for bed, a small shake to the shoulder.

“Carry me,” Joker whined, arms raised and making grabbing motions at Bruce.

It was annoying. It was also funny, though Bruce wouldn’t let Joker see him smile over that. “Come on, get up.”

“I’ll sleep here, then.” He twisted, laying on his stomach and spreading out on the couch now that Bruce’s spot had vacated.

“I guess so.”

Joker sat up. “It’s no fun if you agree to it.”

“I don’t know why you expected me to be any fun.”

“After this long, I don’t know why either.”

That caught Bruce off guard. He laughed at that one. What Joker was, he didn’t have a word for, but there were times even he had to admit the clown could be funny.


	14. Cycled Like That

Bruce’s chest was broad, his body warm and large. The heating didn't reach parts of the manor, and with enough whining Bruce sat still while Joker clung.

If this was all Bruce would allow from him, this would be enough. More than enough given his catalog of mischief. Or evil, as Bruce would deem it. Tomato tomahto.

Sometimes he felt it in his bones, the deeply woven toxin that was him. For a moment, he'd want it out, wanted Bruce to coax it out of him but he knew that he would cease to be himself once that poison had been sapped.

Not quite fear of death, though enough humanity remained for his chest to seize on the wrong end of the gun. It was about preservation. Instinct, maybe. Something that went beyond feeling.

Though everything he'd ever done or thought of had always felt like it went beyond feeling, but he knew better. Coming up with stupidly elaborate plans to get a birthday cake to blow up a government building was not instinct.

Maybe there was a spectrum, and he wondered where his bond with the Batman ranked on it. Pretty high, he figured.

Bruce's chest was broad and warm. Thoughts cycled like that, always back at square one if he'd ever left it in the first place. If there were squares on the game board to begin with. If they weren't just two gamepieces removed from the context of their game by being knocked over onto the ground.

It was funny. He smiled at it, stifling his laughter because he didn't want Bruce asking about it.


	15. Beautiful Morning

When Bruce awoke, it was to a small peck on the lips. Joker sat over him, fingers grasping the thick of his forearm. They squeezed when Bruce opened his eyes.

He expected a good morning, but Joker kept quiet, kept his stare and expression neutral. He waited for a time in silence for a word, an excuse to make him angry.

How long had joker's hand been on him like that to be that warm? Dull senses made for dull edges. There was a time he would've snapped awake at the contact.

He had been having suspiciously restful sleep lately. Waking up was never pleasant but this was almost doable. A pity that any sign of wellness was a symptom.

“Can I help you?” He couldn't muster a bite to his words, couldn't furrow his brows as the corners of Joker’s lips pulled upward.

“I just like looking at you.”

Bruce hummed a low, distasteful sound. 

Joker tutted. “Don't be like that, Batsy. It's a beautiful morning. I was thinking of breakfast outdoors today.”

A non-committal grunt was as good affirmation as any to Joker, the clown quick to his feet as he set out for the for the kitchen.

No matter the hands that did it, there was a warm nostalgia to being cared for. He wondered if Joker knew that. And if Joker did, he wondered how he picked up on it. He thought often of Alfred, or of the more distant memories of his mother waking him for school. Surely, there were wistful glances made where he remembered where either stood when greeting him.

Of the many things Bruce thought of Joker, he did not underestimate the man’s skills in observation. After all, Bruce had also become attuned to the look of longing after seeing it in the other. It was distinct, the way the body yearned and and twisted for what it wished for most.

Bruce dressed, and when he entered the kitchen Joker could be seen through the sliding glass doors setting cutlery down on the patio table. He seemed to sense Bruce, turned his head and regarded him with a small, friendly smile.

When he stepped in again, he motioned toward a pair of near-identical plates topped with eggs, toast and ham. “Take your pick.”

Bruce grabbed the one closest to him and followed the clown outside to the table. Joker was right, it was a very nice day.

“You slept soundly tonight,” Joker made conversation between bites.

“You were watching me for a while, then,” Bruce concluded.

Joker chuckled. “I can’t help myself.”

Bruce nodded, chewing slowly. “It’s not as if I expected impulse control to be one of your strong points.”

The clown raised his brows, laughing louder now. Bruce wished he hadn’t said that. “I think you’d be surprised.”

The truth was Bruce wouldn’t be. Longing was a puppet-master, in its way. Just as Joker had seen through him, he’d seen through Joker. Though it was something Bruce often tried to push from his mind. It was more difficult now with the way Joker’s eyes flitted in interest, the way his thumb and forefinger had moved up and down the stem of the the wine glass he’d been drinking orange juice out of. 

As long as Bruce was uncomfortable, Joker would never leave it at that. “I’m not a nun, Bats.” The statement was so absurd that Bruce had to laugh, though he hadn’t expected the follow up of, “If you'd let me, I'd have you a hundred thousand times over.”

A bout of silence passed as Bruce set his fork down on his plate, the clink sharp and loud. “This conversation is over.”

“Is it?” Joker cocked his head, mouth drawn into a tight line. “You aren't uncomfortable, are you?”

“Joker,” Bruce warned.

“I’m not letting up, Bats.” Joker gestured with his fork as he spoke. “I won't free you from this. I won't let you forget how I want you.”

Bruce shifted back in his chair, promptly stood and left the table. He felt Joker's eyes after him as he headed back inside and down to the caves to get lost in his work.

If he survived retirement, the idea was he'd alleviate Barbara’s work load. When that time had finally come he typed about half as fast as her and navigated systems he thought he was familiar with only to find he was wholly inadequate. She didn't need him to do it, he knew, but she humored him.

Batman would never be irrelevant, but Bruce himself struggled keeping up. That frustration was good, though. It made it easy to forget the smaller stressors.

But he knew Joker would follow him down with loud, echoed footsteps. It seemed Joker chose the loudest shoes when he came down.

“How long is it going to be like this, Bats?” Joker's voice was accusatory, on the edge of annoyance.

Bruce snorted. “Am I getting on your nerves? I think that's only fair.”

“Fair,” Joker repeated with a chuckle. “Sometimes I think you've got a better sense of humor than me.” He edged closer, standing behind his chair. He leaned down, lips brought close to Bruce's ear. “We both know where we're heading.”

Bruce’s hand swatted, slapping Joker’s cheek away with a backhand. “Don't do that.” He spun in his chair, faced the clown. “Let me make one thing clear here, no matter how well we may be getting along we're not going to have that kind of relationship.”

“Oh,” Joker cackled. “That really bothered you, didn't it? I'd say I was polite about it, too. I could've been much more vulgar.”

“It's not about the vulgarity.”

“It's not? Then you're fine with me being forthright. In that case, I’d love to fuck you.”

For a moment, Bruce remained quiet. He breathed, gathered himself before he let his fists speak for him. “I don’t appreciate you provoking me.”

“And you know what? I don’t care.” Self-satisfied, but not stupid, Joker took a step back out of reach. “What’s a proposition without a little provocation, Batsy? Isn’t it more fun when we’ve got a little tension?”

And while he knew what Joker really meant, the adrenaline from wanting to deck the clown was thrilling in its own right. Not even for the sake of winning, or for the sake of getting him to shut up. He was just itching to trade blows, the twitch in his fingers relieved only when they were balled into fists.

He waited on a word, waited on an excuse to throw the first punch and then Joker stepped over, smile on his lips, taking the spare swivel chair off to the side of the console. The menace folded his arms and sat back wordlessly.

After seconds of this, where Bruce realized Joker wouldn’t follow up, he deflated, relaxed his hands and continued working with a sigh.

Out of his periphery, Joker’s hands moved down his midsection. Bruce wasn’t an idiot, he quickly figured out what was going on. From midsection, the hands moved over his hips and onto his crotch. Joker palmed himself.

Hearing Joker reference sexuality was one thing, seeing it was another thing entirely. Unable to push the idea out of his mind when the sound of hands sliding over silk persisted, he wanted to say something, but that meant addressing it. That meant Joker would likely say something that caused him to look over, for them to lock eyes while he groped himself.

So Bruce typed louder, typed hard and incessantly to drown out the sounds of cloth shifting over cloth as Joker pulled the waistband of his pajamas down. He was sent something about recent League of Assassins activity. He’d only half read the report but now contextualized his history with them for newer members of the Justice League.

Joker spit into his hand, and Bruce almost tore his eyes away from the screen. Mild disgust, a shudder down his body when he heard the wet palm slapping on skin. Something, though, something kept dragging at his eyes, pulling at them for a better look at the vague, suggestive shapes in his periphery. If only for full context, to fill those gaps because maybe it wasn’t what he thought it was. Maybe it was another of Joker’s pranks.

A small noise sounded. A closed mouth, an open throated moan, the breathing audible and uneven through the nostrils.

“Bruce.” His given name was called sweetly, and Bruce made the mistake of slightly turning his head enough for an eyeful. Joker, who’d come into his hand, cleaned up after himself by sucking his digits into his mouth and lapping up along drips over his palm and wrist. White erection waning, hanging over his thighs, slick with spit.

Bruce turned back sharply, too stunned to be angry. League of Assassins. Justice League. Something. His train of thought was ruined, and after Joker had left for upstairs Bruce attached what he’d written and sent it to Barbara, apologizing for half-assed work.

She didn’t need him to do it, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it only took two years for bruce to see joker's dick


	16. Nothing Too Obscene

A precedent had been set. It had to have been. Joker fixated like that, obsessed over ideas until he'd have his fill and Bruce was sure the morning in the caves would be followed up by other unwelcomed displays of sexuality.

The funny thing about expectation was that time between instances seemed to stretch, making him anxious. Unusually so, at the least, the feeling tight in his chest every time Joker had merely adjusted his clothing or scratched himself.

There was a certain point that Bruce had come to the sickening realization that he was the one obsessing. His eyes darted immediately if Joker’s hands so much as hovered over himself.

Then came the stray thoughts, passing fancy. Nothing too obscene, just Joker’s hands rested on his own bared, white thighs.

Loneliness, Bruce learned, was tangible. A guitar string wound too tightly, a small turn from snapping. The feeling of cold, curious fingers hanging on the tuning key, teasing to tug tighter yet.

Really, he'd brought this upon himself. When Bruce hadn’t deliberately pushed people away to protect them from Joker, others simply held him in contempt for housing the madman to begin with.

It was remarkable how long he'd lasted until now, but in retrospect it was no special thing. He used to look at Joker and see his grief, his anger and his mistakes manifested. Those associations seemed so distant now, and he felt guilty. He'd gotten used to the Joker. Well past that, even. 

He felt the sick thrill in his stomach thinking about the morning in the caves. Not arousal, but it was something. Something that should've been snubbed, ignored and re-purposed into productivity.

Every time Bruce tried, his mind wandered. Nothing too obscene, just Joker’s hands sliding up his own naked thighs.

If there was anything Bruce prided himself in, it was his discipline of mind. But even that had its limitations. Nothing too obscene, just Joker’s hands sliding up his own naked thighs, thumb flicking up, pushing up against the shaft of his cock.

Now it was inexcusable. Bruce's body reacted in contradictions to his imagination. An eager stir, a coil of disgust, a thump of interest, a weight of dread. And he was paranoid throughout, worried Joker would pick up on the developing inclination. Though Bruce was given no indication, instead treated to Joker's usual chattiness and cloying affection.


	17. Momentum

Bruce wondered if Joker's love was an easy love. It certainly wasn't effortless, Joker not only allowing himself to be swept away, but also increasing the momentum by rowing with the tide.

Bruce hung on that word. Momentum. Individually evaluated, days lacked significance but with their time as a whole he had a better grasp on the momentum.

Bruce’s walls tested by relentless momentum.

He stared. Joker caught him and smiled.

Bruce wished to say something, but had nothing in mind. Only kept looking, mind working over the time between them.

A burst dam? A runaway train? He grasped for a metaphor to make sense of it, to extrapolate a grander meaning but if he had enough sense to realize he was overcomplicating things when he reached that far.

Though to strip himself of metaphors meant confronting the rather sad reality of being a lonely old man strapped for riveting company.

Maybe he prided himself too much on his supposed walls, picturing his mind instead as a steep slope. A sane person thought twice before heading down but Joker launched himself headfirst and built momentum. Always building momentum to what would certainly end in a spectacular crash. That just seemed to be the way everything went for Bruce, and instead of being wary he felt resigned to it.

“Don't stare at a man like that unless you plan to kiss him,” Joker quipped.

For a moment, Bruce imagined just that. Thought of where the momentum would take them because even if he couldn't find the right metaphor, he'd found the right word.

“And if I did kiss you?” Bruce prompted.

Joker chuckled, giddy and light. “We just see where we go from there.” He reached out a soft hand, brushed hair behind Bruce’s ear. His thumb settled below his jaw, making small strokes along the jawline made in passes.

Bruce held his breath and waited, waited, waited, but it never came.

Joker giggled at that and pulled his hand back. “You have to work for it, Bats.”

Bruce exhaled slowly, beginning to laugh. “I'm crazy.”

“Just par for the course,” Joker dismissed, held his gaze for a moment longer before setting it back on the television. “I've waited a long time, you know. It's not fair that you don't really have to.”

“Fair,” Bruce repeated wryly.

“It is sort of a meaningless word, isn't it?” Joker’s hand slid onto Bruce's thigh. “Will you pretend this was your three-quarters life crisis tomorrow?”

“I'm pretending it is as we speak.”

Joker cracked up. “Then I'll take initiative while I can.” Laughter settled, a quieting fade to silence. A stare shared between them.

Bruce hadn't waited long the second time around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another year another couple hundred words. Happy Valentine's.


End file.
